Dr. Lant passed away April 16, 2023
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Three Score and Nine.
Author’s Program Note
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
I was sleeping, but that doesn’t matter, though sleep is fitful. The
squatters of memory are thick on the ground this early morning, and
they are sharp, demanding, unrelenting.
They don’t have to say “Get up!” They have merely to insinuate and
ensconce themselves on top of any artifact of my collecting and with
finger pressed to lip urge general silence and consideration for the
hapless master who hears everything, who is influenced by everything,
and is putty in their insistent hands.
Thus I begin to sip the vintage that is Chateau Jeffrey 69, Limited Edition…
and I begin to rummage through the scattered shards of memory, the well
remembered and the dim; the memories of total strangers as clear today
as every day preceding whilst those of my dearest and beloved slip away
despite every precaution. And I cannot bear it.
Prisoners of Memory.
We are the prisoners of memory, and memory is a cruel jailer, a jailer who
tantalizes with our deepest memories… then snatches them away, replacing
them with tears that are the truest indication I have lived.
“There are pancakes “.
To be the “Birthday Boy” beginning February 16,1947 was to be greeted at
frigid dawn with mud, mud of every color and hue, of unyielding thickness, and
an infinitude of particles that find apertures to cement, covering everything,
forgetting nothing, boasting, especially on gray misted winter days, that
mud rules the world and so it was “mind those muddy boots, Happy Birthday,
son, I’ve just mopped that linoleum, give me a kiss, there’s something for you
on the table”, the cacophony of daily life in the Land of Lincoln, the bedrock
of the Great Republic, of Thee I sing.
Yearning.
And then Rimski-Kosakov filled every space in that seemingly ordinary
abode, each brick placed by the hands of those who loved me, father,
grandfather, uncles, the stock of the great nation they were building one
brick at a time.
There was nothing unusual about what they were doing and how they were
doing it…. nothing but love and the cascading sounds that were Rimski-Kosakov
at his finest, for though we built in the unavailing mud, our minds were
untrammeled and ruled a world of our fashioning. Mud was the price of empire,
and we paid it gladly with sweat, sweat and determination the undoubted coin
of this realm.
“That blueberry one is yours; I forgot to buy the syrup, so you’ll have to
make do. Don’t pester the cat.”
It was time to throw open my bedroom windows, for I loved every kind of weather,
torrential rain mixed with blueberry batter; punishing blizzards, terrible thunder
and the delicate wisps of fog that parted just for me, new contortions, with new
characters every minute.
I knew, I was told, there was a great world beyond, where the stories of
Scheherazade for Sultan Schariar were set to the genius of Rimsky-Korsavov.
He was a master whose notes were carried by the fickle, tortuous winds.
There they worked their magic for those sad places that had no magic, living
but to die, untouched by God, ashes to ashes… But that was not me.
I was, you see, a lucky lad as one must be who has the great prairies
and the infinite sky as his closest companions. I was never lonely, but
I was nostalgic for things I had never seen but knew so well awaited
me along with the people who longed to find me while knowing I was
ardently looking for them too, right now, never flagging and always
grateful for even a clue as to where such great souls could be found
and how I should know them in the madding crowd where I begged
for connection.
So did many give me their love and I came to believe, as any ardent
young man might, that such kindness and passion were
inexhaustible, as I in my salad days I did believe and which still
attend me truly, against all odds, against Time itself which crushes all
in due course, all but love which defies all to sustain all. And I am so
sustained.
Life anywhere, everywhere else.
Like all good Midwesterners I believed that life was to be found anywhere,
everywhere I was not.That the high events, the lurid dramas, the noble ideas and
sublime impassioned thoughts, and all the people thereunto pertaining, were secretly
briefed on my whereabouts so that I should never find them, never know them and
remain forever in search of what forever I could not have… doomed to want, frustration
my sure companion; bitterness and ardor increasing forever, a conspiracy to keep
my destiny secret, unattainable, the longing terrible and unremitting. I was in a
dungeon, lost, hopeless, doomed, trapped by mud and the general indifference
of those who had given up and cared no longer. And I despaired. When did my
life, real life begin and how could I be assured it had no already passed me by.
And this was the most bitter thought of all… of all and every day.
But it was not yet my only thought. I was young, there was hope; there
were dreams to spare and the poetry that I could see in every clod, yes even
there. And then arrived le gros battallions in the shape of a 78 rpm record from
a New York address that offered one free, if you purchased one each month,
forever after. And so a Queen named Scherherazade entered my life, for
her quest, freedom, was mine, and I knew even then, to travel in the company
of princes ensured adventure.
.
—
Dr. Jeffrey Lant
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQNymNaTr-Y
thoughts of turning 65
http://jeffreylantarticles.com/jeffreylant/whether-i-shall-turn-out-to-be-the-hero-of-my-own-life-thoughts-on-turning-65-february-16-2012-and-my-most-memorable-birthday/attachment/copperfield/
http://jeffreylantarticles.com/jeffreylant/whether-i-shall-turn-out-to-be-the-hero-of-my-own-life-thoughts-on-turning-65-february-16-2012-and-my-most-memorable-birthday/
‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life…’ Thoughts on turning 65 February 16, 2012 and my most memorable birthday.
February 16, 2012 | Author: Jeffrey Lant | Posted in Dr. Jeffrey Lant’s Article Archive
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. I have always liked Charles Dickens. Not only was he a writer able to make words do his bidding, but he roused multitudes of people, people who after reading this master could never see the world as before… but only through his eyes. That is power indeed.
When I was a student living in London in the late ’60s, Charles Dickens’ house was right around the corner on Doughty Street; I went often, my mission clear: to see how the master of words lived his messy, turbulent, always productive life. That didn’t help; I had to wait until I lived my own to find out how it’s done….
But I resolved that when it came time for me, as an older man, looking back on my young and tender self, that I should incorporate the great beginning to “David Copperfield” (published 1850)… and so today I shall do so:
“Chapter 1. I am born.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.” And so, very similarly, it went for me… and, no doubt for you, too; for at that moment we are all similar… something we ought to remember later, when we cultivate and embrace divisiveness instead of diversity.
Seeking clues, finding clues.
There is no adventure so thrilling, so personally significant, so completely fulfilling as going on expedition to find yourself, for the discovery of you cannot help but be the most important journey you will take. For this epic journey — for your life must always be that — I have selected the lush 1969 score by Sir Malcolm Arnold to one of the several filmed versions of “David Copperfield”. You can find it in any search engine. Play it now before going on…
And so we begin…
I was born in Illinois February 16, 1947, making me a card-carrying Baby Boomer. It was the date of my parents’ first wedding anniversary; the date, too, when two of my paternal aunts gave birth to boys the same time. Family, fecundity, faith in the Great Republic and its devices were in the air.
It is fashionable, particularly in political circles, to minimize what one’s parents had, while enhancing the struggles they faced; the deprivations many and humiliating visited upon the hapless children… but this is not my story, even if I stretched the truth.
When I see my life in its whole, the words that come to mind are words of security, amplitude, family… words about the Great Republic, its especial place in the firmament… and of small town life and verities… where everyone knew you, almost from the first moment of conception. There my father built us a rambling ranch house graced by a sign that said “This is the house that Don built, 4906 Woodward Avenue”.
It was set in the midst of acres of violets whose very color I can never see without a lump in my throat….if in such circumstances we may have lacked this or that, we didn’t know and it never mattered… because we were blessed in so many ways… No one more so than I.
“You looked at me,” she said, “with interest and intelligence, as if you had come to tell me something and know me better.”
Life revealed one of my important traits right from the start. My mother was young and feared delivery and the burdens of maternity. She told me often in later years that she didn’t want children, didn’t like them… and was resentful when her early pregnancy was discovered. But then…then… a nurse placed me in her arms for the first time… and that changed everything.
She told me, always as if she had never told me before, I looked at her at that crucial moment of acknowledgement… not with fear, anxiety, trepidation or even uncertainty… but instead steadily, with empathy, as if I had come to cheer her and tell her all would be well.
Thus it came to be said that I had a special mission to humanity and the necessary skills and healing gifts. If so, I used them that day.
Prodigies
All mothers probably think their children prodigies, especially the first born… but my mother’s oft reiterated belief about what she saw on our first meeting put my feet upon the path I continue to tread this very day… a path that gave me what, age ten or so, I told them I wanted: to go to Harvard, to write books, to be a millionaire, all accomplished before thirty. This is how it happened…
Exemption, recognition
Boys in 1950’s Illinois needed to be good at sports, especially baseball, basketball or football, handy with cars, or at some practical subject like mathematics, a requirement for careers in engineering and the like. I was good at none of these… and yet it never mattered. I was, from the first day of school, the recognized school leader, master of words and thoughts which were always more adult than my schoolmates, who might so easily have derided… but never did, not least because I was always perceived as a friend, even confidante of my teachers, able to empathize and understand their situations; always, therefore a (young) colleague, never merely a pet. I used this influence for the good of my classmates, my instructors, the support staff… and myself. As such, I had the ear of all, for the benefit of all.
I learned what it took to assist authority and to achieve what I wanted… by helping such people get what they wanted. And this skill, once planted, has never deserted me… and as a result I have always been welcomed by the intelligent, the accomplished, the powerful, and all manner of people whose brains are fertile, whose visions are expansive, and for whom life is a grand thing, to be savored, improved, enhanced at every step and always shared, as I share mine with such people; now including you. In this way I lived a life enhanced by those good people and kind who have chosen to live it with me, as you perhaps will do, too.
My favorite birthday.
Have I then become the hero of my own life? Even now, it is too early to tell, though I remain resourceful and always hopeful. But I can resolutely tell you this: my favorite birthday is my actual birth day for from it everything else has come… and it all started with a look, two eyes just opened looking for the first time into two eyes anxious and frightened just a moment ago, now with a dawning realization that all will be well and with incipient happiness, too.
That is why, so equipped, I approach each new day as a pilgrim to this planet; ready to smile, to laugh, to use my talents, to enhance life… and above all else to love… for love explains all, enables all, enhances all, forgives all, understands all, embraces all… which is why, just 65, the best is yet to come… the last of life for which the first is made. So Browning enlightened my mother; so my mother enlightened me… and so I trust, on this special day, I have now enlightened you.
For this is the only acceptable kind of life… where, one by one, we reach out to each other… determined to engage… to touch… to venture upon the ocean of time with hope, humility, humanity. This is what I have learned in my first 65 years… and now it is my present to you… gratefully given… and I hope gratefully received and used for good… for this is the way if you, too, wish to become the hero of your own life, as I know you wish to do…
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today. Details at worldprofit.com
http://jeffreylantarticles.com/jeffreylant/nobody-wants-you-when-youre-old-and-gray-on-the-matter-of-turning-65-and-other-outrages/
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It was a great honor to work with Dr. Jeffrey Lant during his tenure as CEO of Worldprofit. This
article was given to Daniel Fischer while Dr. Jeffrey Lant was at Worldprofit.
Yours In Success,
Daniel Fischer Dano Enterprises
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